


Tumblr Ficlet Dumping Ground

by waywardcherry



Category: Glee
Genre: Abortion, F/F, F/M, Infidelity, Multi, Polyamory
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-27
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 15:36:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 9,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/737305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardcherry/pseuds/waywardcherry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a collection of the ficlets I post on my <a href="http://waywardcherry.tumblr.com">blog</a>. Most of them revolve around Rachel Berry, each chapter has the pairing/relationship involved. I'll continue to post them as they come up.</p><p>LATEST: Quinn/Brittany - college AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rachel/Santana - abortion

**Author's Note:**

> Anonymous asked:  
> Secret, Stars, Golden. “Different Kind of Wonderful”, by Fisher.
> 
> Trigger warning: abortion.

It never quite got to that moment where she  _knew_  there was something wonderful and spectacular about to happen. She didn’t see the fireworks, and she never really got the grand gesture.

The gesture was small, the hands warm around her own, resting on her lap, on that cold waiting room chair, the cold that matched what she had set her mind and body to feel that day. But the hands were warm like the lone tear falling down her cheek for a fleeting moment.

The gesture was silent, helping her out of her clothes and choosing old sweaters for her to wear. It came in the murmured mocking of the reindeers that brought familiarity to something so far removed from her plan and reality; sometimes it shook her fiercely, even though she remained stoic, when she heard the whispers of the two people who once hated her most and now were the anchors of her sanity. They would plan and strategize, from her meals down to her clothing, from the notes of classes she was missing to the one who would keep her company that night.

The gesture was also encouraging, when she was up and moving around, not due to any problems in her recovery, but her slow acceptance that _this_  was her life, and she had  _her_. Santana would tell her who was who on Masterchef and why that girl was talking funny on The Bad Girls Club. She would nod and understand about sixty percent of the time, because the rest of it was spent watching this girl wasting her own days holding her hand under the comforter or absentmindedly playing with the cuffs of her NYADA sweater, her fingers lightly brushing over her own hands, eyes fixed on Mystery Box challenges.

It was sweet and small and recurring. When Kurt would leave for class or an audition or a date, she would find post-it notes on the fridge or, less subtly, in the middle of the TV screen with a gold star and a winky face that her friend was out for groceries or lectures or liquor; never a social outing or something that didn’t have to do with  _them_.

It was thinking of them as  _them_  that jolted her awake. Nine weeks had passed, she hadn’t seen Brody at all. His presence in the loft was not missed, by anyone. But she was due back at NYADA soon, no longer the young ingenue hoping to prove something, but a woman with quiet confidence and feet planted on the harsh reality. And a  _them_  to think about.

Sleeping alone was a problem. Getting the company to hold her through the night was not.

Not much had changed for Kurt. Sure, he would sit with her and update her on the latest at school, but at night his curtains were drawn, sleeping mask on and earplugs in place. Nothing to alert him of the socked feet crossing the loft and the legs intertwining with her own under the covers; the soft, protective hand on her lower belly, the sweet, steady breath below her ear. And the faint brush of lips murmuring goodnight against her skin. It was _them_ , slow and growing under no one’s watch.

There were no expectations or rules. During a rewatch of Like Crazy, she was comfortably drowsy, her face nuzzled against spilled black hair on the pillow, that hand came up to her cheek, tracing a line from her brow to her mouth. She lightly puckered her lips against a finger that still rested there and closed her eyes when she felt their bodies shifting. Plump lips grazed her own and that place in her belly, always empty but protected by a steady hand, became warm and tight like it hadn’t in a long time. “Are you okay?” were the words whispered against her temple.

She was okay. She saw the stars out the window, something rare in this town, she saw love seeping quietly into their existence, she saw quiet promises in eyes full of fire.

There were no fireworks. But that was okay.


	2. Rachel/Santana - Broadway rivals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few choice words in an elevator. 
> 
> Day 1 of Pezberry Week, Broadway rivals.

Santana is just about skipping toward the elevator, but well, she’s gotta deal with the pout she’s faced with once she gets inside. Losing will never be easy for Berry and there’s that face again. If Santana needs to rile her up and out of this mood… “ _Must_  you do that?”

“Do what?” Rachel asks, eyes fixed on the panel.

“Be everywhere I go.”

“I’m  _working_.”

“Get a new job already.”

Rachel sighs heavily. “That’s a silly comeback as you know this is _my_ area of expertise and not yours.”

Okay, so here she is, trying to help and she gets backhanded like that. “Oh, I’m sorry! I thought it was  _my_  workshop that got picked up, not yours. My mistake.”

“Santana—”

“No, really. I think it’s  _adorable_  how you think you can beat me whenever we set foot in the circuit—”

“It’s a matter of principle, Santana. You were never meant to do this.”

 _Now_  they seem to be getting somewhere. “That’s not what Playbill says,” she sing-songs.

“How’s your record coming along?”

And… that’s not where she thought this was going at all. She tries a last effort at composure.

“You mean my album or the one I’m breaking left and right with your face?”

“I meant the album and I don’t wanna know anymore.”

Santana tightens the grip on the straps of her bag. This is getting way too personal. “I—didn’t know you knew about that.”

“I know everything,” she says, her stance a little more rigid and it’s weird that she hasn’t so much as glanced at Santana, not even once, ever since they got in. And this has Nina written all over it. Their stylist is the biggest fucking gossip she knows and this is reason number 46 why she should be gone by the end of the week.

“No, I’m serious, nobody knows about this, Rachel.”

“I care what you do with your musical talent and I think that’s the right choice.”

“Now I’m getting  _opinions_. Really, it’s none of your business.”

“Everything that concerns you is my business,” she says as she finally turns her head to look at Santana. And this— _thing_  those eyes do to her is never gonna be okay. It makes her lose track of her argument and retort with dumb things like, ‘well your hair is stupid’. She gets off her game so fast it’s ridiculous. At a loss for the right words, she aims low (she’s not proud, okay) and takes the opportunity to get it off her chest. She grabs Rachel’s left hand and shakes it before Rachel indignantly yanks it away.

“This damn ring says otherwise!”

“I’m not getting into this with you in an elevator.”

“ _Wanky_.”

“Well, not today. I’m in a terrible mood, you just stole my funding and you didn’t tell me something crucial about your life.”

Is this where she’s supposed to feel vaguely pissed off for the implication that they’re in a committed relationship? Because— _well_.

“Well, this something crucial about your life kinda fucks up my day whenever I see it, so forgive me if I don’t ‘share’ or whatever.”

“It’s  _Adam_ , Santana,” she says, splaying her hands on either side of her, like that should make it okay or something.

“I saw his bare ass in your living room just yesterday. My gay friends keep theirs to themselves, just so you know.”

“He’s a free spirit!”

“Should I remind you he was wearing a beret?” She knows by the way Rachel purses her lips that they’re in agreement. “Yeah, you can’t dispute that little tidbit. He’s a fucking weirdo and I’m sorry that you decided to publicly associate yourself with that.”

Rachel shrugs. “What’s it to you?” Does she think she’s convincing anybody with that? It’s cute. That’s why fighting with Rachel is one of the best things about her, well,  _life_.

“People might think you have terrible taste, which, _hello_.”

“May I remind you he’s headlining Newsies to great acclaim?”

“Only because he gets to wear that stupid hat.”

“ _Santana_.”

“Look, whatever, just have  _your_  stylist do her fucking job right and not pick the same color for us for the fourth event in a row. It’s getting ridiculous.”

“Maybe Nina’s being subliminal. Isn’t that what you want?”

“No,” she says as the elevator door slides open on the 4th floor and she holds it. When she notices the line of people waiting to get in, she gets her face closer to Rachel’s and drops her voice almost to a whisper. “I want  _in-your-face_. I want that ring gone so I can put my own there.”

Rachel focuses her eyes on the crowd behind them. “Santana, people are starting to stare.” She knows it’s risky because there’s suddenly a few gasps and she can tell they’ve been recognized.

“Fine. And by the way, I’m not Taylor-Swifting you in my album with shit like ‘she has a beard and it makes me cry’. I’m classier than that. I’ll find better words.”

“ _Thanks_ ,” Rachel says, rolling her eyes. There’s a ghost of a smile there, so maybe she won this time. She starts to walk away as people file in, surrounding Rachel.

“Tonight?”

“Tonight.” And the two of them must’ve raised some eyebrows, because Rachel saying “ _It’s a_ _song_ ” is the last thing she hears as the doors close.


	3. Rachel/Santana - babysitting at the zoo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is just something I was gonna submit for [rockinrye](http://archiveofourown.org/users/rockinrye/works), but I needed fluff asap. It’s a bit rushed and I’ve never been to the Bronx Zoo, but whatever. It’s based on [this picture](http://media.tumblr.com/74afa7fdc481b5ef39520309817d40ec/tumblr_inline_mjpvcjdF7p1qz4rgp.jpg).

Santana mentally focuses all her pent-up anger at having work two separate shifts on a Sunday at her boss, not at the 187 transfers she has to make to get to the Bronx Zoo to meet Rachel. Normally, the way there is twice her lunch break, but since she’s covering for that hungover bitch and she hasn’t properly seen her girlfriend in about a week (sharing a bed doesn’t count), she traded the rest of the afternoon for the night shift and stopped at a McDonald’s for some fries and chicken nuggets. If she’s gonna spend an afternoon at the fucking zoo, she might as well indulge in something that’ll make her happy and she can have in public. ( _Rachel_ ’s not an option. Stupid kids.)

In a few text exchanges, she finds her way to a bench facing the big cat habitat. Tigers, more specifically. She fixes her pony before she sits next to Rachel, who smiles at the kiss she gets on the cheek. (She had other ideas, but it’s a place crawling with children and people are still grade A assholes.)

“Hey,” Rachel says, her smile something ridiculously cute. They look at each other for a second and Rachel returns her gaze to the kids she’s watching. See, they’re not here for fucking funsies. They moved out of Bushwick a year ago and the rent in the Lower East Side on their budget is no joke. They both work part-time after school, Santana at the coffee shop and Rachel babysits for this guy she met auditioning one time. He had three kids with another theater geek and of course none of them have regular names. They’re nice enough, though. “Do you have to go back tonight?” Rachel asks with a pout Santana can already _feel_  is coming.

“It’s either this or me pawing at you in the dark,” she says, rummaging through the brown bag to set up her lunch. 

“ _Santana_.” And Rachel directs a look at the toddler below, her back turned to them and arms slung over Rachel’s knees.

“Oh, come on, she doesn’t know a lion from a porcupine, she’s  _fine_.”

At that, Penelope looks back at Santana and smiles. She’s been around these brats long enough to know the kid wants a fry. She hands one over and Rachel scowls. “What happened to eating more healthily?” But it doesn’t even register with Santana when Rachel says that with a handful of fries.

“It’s nice seeing you in the daylight for a change.”

“Did you miss my face?”

She can’t say she’s missed anything else because that part is good and  _frequent_ , thank you. So yeah, kinda. “I’ll say.”

Between their jobs, Rachel’s senior year at NYADA and Santana’s eternal search for a label, it’s like they only exist to each other as warm bodies in the night. That’ll change soon, hopefully. She scoots closer on the bench and Rachel leans a little more into her, carefully keeping her legs in place so that Penelope doesn’t fall over.

Near the safety glass that separates the tigers from the obnoxious people they’d probably kill given the chance (she’s not gonna lie—she’d do the same thing), stand the other two kids Rachel’s responsible for. Aurora seems more focused on her iPod than her 6-year-old brother’s rant about how awesome tigers are. His name is Sebastian, after The Little Mermaid (their cracked out dad’s idea for the youngest was  _Vanellope_ , but a good soul finally told him it was too much), and the little punk is sort of her favorite. He’s really smart for his age and he matched her word for word on Boggle when Rachel and Santana had to spend the night during a snowstorm. It’s not something she has in her plans at 22, but this is the kind of kid she wishes to have one faraway day.   
She tells Rachel so as Penelope turns to grab another fry. “I don’t know,” Rachel sighs. “I wouldn’t want him as a child.”

Santana secretly loves that her girlfriend doesn’t even do the annoying act where she asks if she should include herself in that plan. It’s _them_ , of course they assume shit about each other they haven’t even talked about yet.

Rachel huffs and twirls her pinky on a strand of Penelope’s hair. “He’s a show-off and has terrible manners.”

 _Well_. Santana finishes off her chicken nuggets and wipes her hand on her pants. “That’s _me_  and you like me, so.”

She feels Rachel’s about to agree when Penelope interrupts their moment and wobbles over to the glass. The whole time they’ve been sitting here, one of the tigers has been agitated, walking along the partition, back and forth. If she were a caretaker, she’d give him his favorite food or toy or  _deer_  to play with before even thinking of setting foot in there.

(It suddenly occurs to her that it must be something zookeepers do, like, if a sandwich gets stolen or something, threaten them with a trip to the tiger habitat.  _She would_.)

Both their bodies are tense and she feels her jaw lock for no particular reason, really. It takes her a few seconds to understand that there’s a  _reason_  that glass stands between wild animals and humans. She exhales and elbows Rachels lightly on the side. “Babe.”

Rachel’s “What?” comes out like a squeak, coupled with wide eyes full of terror. Santana laughs lightly and holds her hand.

“It’s okay, she’s safe.”

“What if he loses it and attacks the glass and somebody around here has a heart condition?”

“Oh- _kay_ , wanna go see the bears? I’m sure they’d find their match right now. Jesus, calm down.”

“Look, at the moment, they are  _my_  kids. When their parents are not around, they’re mine, even if I’m not fond of Sebastian half the time.”

The way she says that is so  _adorable_  she doesn’t really mind if it’s insulting to the boy. It’s like it’s in Rachel’s bones to care about people who deserve it the least. She’ll bitch and moan about him, but Santana’s seen her with them. Aurora’s self-sufficient, give her something shiny and she’ll be entertained for hours. Penelope’s a  _baby_ , she needs care by default. Sebastian’s the one Rachel spends most of her time with and it was the most bizarre picture she’s seen in her life to see her girlfriend in a boxing tournament with the kid during that time in the snowstorm. Rachel  _cares_  about him.

Pretty much what happened between them. Santana was won over by persistence and she thanks her fucking lucky stars every day for that.

She feels Rachel freeze again when the tiger stops right in front of Penelope, and it’s like he’s intrigued by that tiny ball of pink. Baby girl doesn’t even flinch when faced with that beast. Santana looks down for a second when she feels the grasp on her hand tighten and notices Rachel biting her bottom lip, eyes fixed on the scene before them.

She’s seen footage of big cats going apeshit on dumb tourists and sometimes they would even try and gnaw through the glass to get to those idiots. Not exactly what’s happening here. Penelope’s still iffy on the walking thing, so she splays both her hands on the glass for support. She’s facing the thing eye to eye and Santana knows she has it bad when _everything_  reminds her of Rachel, somehow. The girl worries, but she’s not afraid of anything. Most of the time she acts without thinking, and when the tiger puts his paw against the glass, bows his head and purrs, she’s done for.

All she can do is clear her throat and swallow that fucking frog lodged in there. It doesn’t help when she hears a watery chuckle, “Are you  _crying_?” One must  _never_  ask her that. Rule number one of the Santana Lopez Handbook. (Rachel needs to be reminded of it sometimes.)

“Shut up,” is the only thing she can come up with. There’s no focus when she glances quickly at her girl, now smiling at what’s happening right there. A few people are taking pictures and some walking ovaries are nearly crying about how  _this is so cuuuuute_  and how their kids will be  _just like that_.

You know what? They don’t know Rachel Berry. They can’t  _possibly_  know how that tiny thing is on her way to have the world bow down to her. And she’ll never flinch standing before it.

These bitches know nothing and now she kind of hates them more for making up metaphors  _at the zoo_. And now she’s thinking about the importance of metaphors and fuck it.

If that kid is a mini Berry, that’s the kid she’d like to have one day.


	4. Rachel/Santana - domesticity meme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr domesticity meme.

**big spoon/little spoon:**

“Mmf.”

“What…”

“Pointy.”

“Huh?”

“Ow, don’t—don’t move. It hurts.”

“Rachel,  _shut up_ , let me sleep.”

“But you’re hurting my back. Your face.”

“What about my— _oh_. Sorry.”

“Glasses?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you also kick your books off the bed? I can’t reach.”

“Dwarf.”

“ _‘Night_.”

**favorite non-sexual activity:**

It’s silly, and it’s not like Rachel doesn’t have a team ready at the snap of her fingers to do that, but she won’t let anyone else do her eyebrows since Santana and Kurt gave her a makeover to prepare her for an audition back when they were roommates. Of course they transformed her into Jessica Rabbit and she could do without the puffy red hair for the rest of her life, but her eyebrows looked so perfect she would follow Santana back to Kentucky to get them done.

(Good thing that never had to happen.)

**who uses all the hot water:**

It’s not her fault that Santana decided to demonstrate Lima Heights to a super with  _Brooklyn_ Heights on his side when the power in the building went out a few weeks ago. She yelled at him for ruining her “billion” depositon studies, but Rachel knows better: her download of season six of  _Dexter_  was interrupted in the middle of her obsession and you just don’t leave Santana do deal with a cliffhanger, no matter her priorities. Now Rachel thinks of kind sociopaths every time the water runs cold.

**most trivial thing they fight over:**

There is no such thing as  _trivial_  in their vocabulary.

**who does most of the cleaning:**

Rachel tends to think the kitchen is sacred ground. It’s always spotless and organized by frequency of use, and she’s proud. Santana, by that logic, keeps the other common areas in the apartment just as clean and tidy. All signs point that their bedroom should be clean enough to perform surgery in, but it’s cluttered, they can’t tell their clothes apart in the piles and once Santana even lost her books on constitutional law in that 2x4 space. It’s the  _one_ thing they don’t fight about. (They’ve tried. There’s no clear winner, so what’s the point in touching that subject?)

**what has a season pass on their dvr/who controls the netflix queue:**

“This is awesome, because I’m not trusting downloads again.”

“That show is so offensive.”

“Just because he kills people?”

“It’s glorifying serial killers!”

“Says the girl who DVRs  _Deadly Women_.”

“Who were  _actually_  punished by law.”

“ _True stories_ , Rachel.”

“How do you know there aren’t many Dexters killing for sport out there?”

“Ugh, whatever.  _I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant_ ’s on, I’m gonna get some wine while you relive old times.”

“Not funny, Santana.”

**who calls up the super/landlord when the heat’s not working:**

Rachel has been trying to win the guy over and she’s getting desperate, because it’s almost winter and she needs to have decent showers. She got an extra ten minutes of hot water the other day because she baked him cookies (regular ones even, so she couldn’t taste them nor ask Santana to, she would flip if she knew Rachel was doing something nice for that pachyderm—Santana’s words, not hers). So the dimmer Santana broke on the heat has been especially hard to convince him to repair. Nobody can say she’s not persistent, as she places the final dollop of icing on the red velvet cake. She can’t live on bribery forever, but— _priorities_.

**who steals the blankets:**

“Rachel.”

“Hm.”

“I’m cold.”

“ _Stop_.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I, shut up.”

“But I’m fucking freezing!”

“You have _all_  the blankets.”

“I need more—mmf. The  _hell_?”

“Have my sweater and leave me alone.”

“I love you.”

**who leaves their stuff around:**

Rachel didn’t mean to. But throwing Santana’s shoes down the trash chute that one time was extremely cathartic. The girl shouldn’t be letting them fall where they may, is what she means.

**who remembers to buy the milk:**

“Rye or bran?”

“Bran.”

“Silk?”

“What?”

“You drink that shit every day, Rachel.”

“ _Milk_?”

“ _Soy_  milk. Seriously, whenever I try to speak vegan, you shit all over my considerate gesture.”

**who remembers anniversaries:**

Santana doesn’t exactly forget, she just gets mixed up with other things going on in her day—and timeframes. It happens often, but Rachel isn’t offended. One time, she had on her red dress with long sleeves (“You didn’t wear that for  _my_  first Thanksgiving in the city, you wore sweats, I demand a do over.”), leaning against the counter and playing something or other on her phone, waiting for them to go out to meet her castmates. Santana barged into the place with a hundred shopping bags, balancing a pastry package and—she had to stare to believe it— _star-shaped balloons_. Before she could say anything, Santana babbled on and on about how she didn’t forget, she basically bought the entire vegan menu at Magnolia and how she carried the balloons around the East Village as self-punishment. Rachel felt something inflate inside her but ended up laughing. Before Santana could launch into another rant, she patiently explained that their anniversary was the next day and what messed her up was their tradition of celebrating at midnight.

That’s also how a box of cupcakes got flattened under Santana’s shoes.

..

**who cooks normally?**

Cooking for Rachel is something she’s learned to accept she’ll never be able to do. And it’s not she like eats whatever her girl comes up with either—only on special occasions, like anniversaries, shows that gets picked up or, y’know,  _apologies_. She’ll down that tofu like it’s smores if it means she’ll get laid later.

**how often do they fight?**

What time is it?

**what do they do when they’re away from each other?**

There’s this comfortable independence going on between them. They’ve never been less than honest with each other, ever since middle school. So, with that comes complete trust. Meaning: the only thing they do differently is not have sex with anyone. Other than that, everything pretty much remains the same.

**nicknames for each other?**

Having been in each other’s lives so long, they cannot come up with anything reasonable as a short for their names. Santana once tried “Rach” in the middle of a casual conversation and they both cringed. It’s physically uncomfortable. Santana reserves her stash of old insults for whenever she wants to be playful—using ‘hobbit’ in a fight means no sex for the foreseeable future and she’s learned her lesson. Rachel’s not someone too keen on nicknames, but when ‘babe’ came out of her mouth one time, Santana turned to mush and it just became a thing.

**who is more likely to pay for dinner?**

It’s just whoever has less crap to dig through in their purse and finds the money first. So it’s usually Santana. She prefers to carry clutches and not bags with  _the world of uselessness_ that Rachel does.

**who steals the covers at night?**

She gets cold easily, okay? Whatever.

**what would they get each other for gifts?**

Santana has this idea that whatever Broadway thing she finds that may count as vintage is a good gift—it works about 80% of the time and she has to endure a rant about the importance of each show (just a ‘thank you’ would suffice, but she knows what she signed up for). She, however, likes to be surprised and will find joy in anything, though she tends to prefer orgasms—and Rachel’s good at reading her tells. Though once Rachel had the brilliant idea of giving her a pet snake. It had a tank and everything, but Rachel wanted Santana to promise Voldy would be free to slither around the apartment as she was a completely safe snake. Voldy was awesome and apparently liked reality TV. Until, that is, Rachel realized their pet needed to be fed live animals.

Voldy was gone in a week.

**who kissed who first?**

Santana doesn’t know if it counts, but when Rachel broke down when they all kicked Brody out of the apartment for being a lying whore (quite literally), Santana grabbed her face with both hands and kissed her while murmuring “it’s okay” over and over. Okay, so Kurt did too, but who got the girl?

**who made the first move?**

“This… dress. My  _god_ , Santana.”

“Thanks?”

“That must be… easy to get out of.”

“Okay,  _Quinn_  is smoother than you. Drool more, please.”

“What—do you mean by—Santana,  _Quinn_?”

“ _Oh_.”

**who remembers things?**

They both do, but… Rachel’s more punctual about it? It’s just that Santana doesn’t count midnight as the next day. It’s  _midnight_.

**who started the relationship?**

Rachel went through a grieving period after Brody where she’d drag Santana all over Manhattan pretending they were in Sex and the City and each of them would pick up a guy and girl, respectively, until Rachel picked up a girl for fucking funsies and it pissed Santana off. It took her about a week to be convinced to go out with Rachel again; she promised a celibacy pact, until that went to shit after a few tequilas and they ended up in bed together.

What tripped Santana up was the coffee and bagels and danishes on the nightstand and a soft kiss below her jaw to wake her up. And those eyes promising her the world when she did.

**who cusses more?**

Well,  _duh_. But she will grant Rachel a pass whenever she gets hurt or sick and her “evil” understudy has to fill in on whatever show she’s on at the moment. In that case, ‘fuck’ is pretty much used as punctuation. (It’s not as hot as Santana thought it would be.)

**what would they do if the other one was hurt?**

There’s a lot of bullying going on about when to take another dose of medicine or eat the damn soup already and not just the letters (whatever,  _Rachel_ ), or just understanding that a bath or a vapor rub  _cannot_  result in sex. They have to be objective and sometimes it’s hard when they’re such asses as patients. They’re also obviously each other’s emergency contacts. And if either of them ends up at the hospital… all she can think is  _I hope the nurses don’t put arsenic in the IV bag_. They can get a little dramatic.

 


	5. Santana/Rachel/Finn (plus baby)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> noonesaidaword asked:  
> Spell, Dream, Warm. “Hey Leonardo”, by Blessid Union of Souls.
> 
> Also [this](http://santana-lopez.livejournal.com/6320.html?thread=1208496#t1208496).

“Do you think it’s weird we’re sleeping with the same woman?”

The way the cocoa burns his tongue at that is something he couldn’t describe if he tried. He kind of wishes he was still having that beer right now, but it’s freezing in the loft and Rachel made them all cocoa earlier with mini marshmallow puffs and he may have reheated it too long; it’s kind of perfect how she didn’t even have to ask him, she just knew that the lager he was having with Santana on the couch was making his teeth chatter. But then the beer would just rain out of his nostrils and that wouldn’t be good, either.

“Why would you— _why_?”

“ _Relax_ , Tubbs. It’s just a question.”

Now his tongue feels like a dead slug in his mouth and he sets the mug down on the side table—Kurt would kill him for getting crap on his afghan. Which he’s sharing with  _Santana_. It’s so weird that she’s asking him that, yet she’s the one he’s basically cuddling with on the couch watching  _World’s Most Dangerous Roads_. Not that Rachel wouldn’t, she’s done that a lot, she doesn’t mind the stuff he watches and she actually asks questions. It was awesome when they were trying to move the llamas across the salt desert and she was rooting so hard for them to make it before sunset.

“You okay?” Santana asks, laughing a little and tilting her head.

“You can’t just say stuff like that, man.”

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?”

Fact is, yes, very true. And he thought he’d mind… well, at least  _more_  than he does at the moment, which is not a lot. He came into this place when everything was already set in motion, this unit thing where he didn’t feel he would belong. But he did, there was that little piece of him there running around, calling them Uncle Kurt, ‘Tana and Mama. He was Finn. But the eyes on that little girl and that half-smile told him he’d be Daddy one day.

He didn’t feel like an intruder in this family. It was Santana who pulled him aside in the kitchen that first day and laid it all down for him—the proximity to the knife block made him shut up and listen—and there wasn’t room for shock. Rachel had his baby, her name was Julianna, Kurt took her to daycare and Santana picked her up on the way home from Tisch. And Rachel and Santana were together.

“Dude.”

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“I don’t like to share, I never even liked sharing  _oxygen_  with you, but…” she shrugs. “It’s not that bad. I like what we have.”

“ _We_ , as in—”

Santana gives him this look that makes him almost curl up into a ball if he had the leg room. “ _Rachel_. She loves us. I  _tolerate_  you.”

“Me too, I guess?”

“And Jules. She loves us. Maybe she loves you,” she says with this small voice he’s never seen her use.

He smiles. “Yeah. Maybe.”

He thinks about this kid and wonders how Rachel can even do half of what she does. She has a job, she goes on a bunch of auditions, she has the two of them and that baby who’s her whole world, and she still finds time to go to school and watch  _Project Runway_  reruns with Kurt at the end of the day. And she’s  _happy_. It just boggles his mind that this woman keeps choosing to have him in her life whenever given the chance.

“You know what?” He feels himself relaxing and reaches for the beer on the coffee table again. “It’s kind of my pleasure to share her with you.”

Santana cringes. “Oh thanks, you just sent my mind to a god-awful place,” she says, but clinks her bottle with his anyway.

“You’ve been there,” he teases.

“God, Finn,  _shut up_!”

It’s kinda fun now, to bring that up and be able to tease her like this. He’s not trying to make up for years of insults, but maybe it balances out the universe? It’s some crap Sam told him awhile ago, but it goes something like that.

His universe is crowded and loud, even more so when the two girls he loves the most slide the door open and giggle their way into the loft. It’s like he can’t look at anything else. Jules runs (and still kind of wobbles) to the couch and lands between him and Santana, and Rachel,  _their_  Rachel, makes herself comfortable on his lap, kissing him like nothing else matters. He can feel two hands link behind his neck and this raspy giggle mixed with their kid’s unmistakable laugh.

If this is what a dream looks like, he’d say he’s finally found one.


	6. Mike/Rachel/Santana - cheating (based on "9 Crimes by Damien Rice")

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [everythreewords](http://everythreewords.tumblr.com) asked: hallway… key, breathless, lighter, drift … 9 crimes - damien rice feat. lisa hannigan…

“Is that alright with you?”

The contents of his pockets scatter around the floor, his eyes catching the fingertips he knows so well disappear beneath the hem of Santana’s shorts and scratch down her thighs. The moan that elicits is indecent.

(Good or bad, he still can’t decide.)

He can’t answer. Rachel asks him again, her voice lower, less certain this time, her lips stroking Santana’s. Of all the things that cross his mind, is how a lighter and that pair of thongs have ended up with his keys. He balls his fists and his throat knots with regret.  _Again_.

He notices Rachel’s misty eyes meet his own while Santana pulls her closer and works her neck. Both Rachel and Mike look at the floor and he can feel an icicle forming in his gut. Her breathless, humorless laugh as Santana slides her hands up her dress and says “Still with the cotton panties. I bet it has ladybugs on it, you idiot,” just make him want to lean against the still locked door and cry.

But he can’t move. He watches. At one point, he squeezes his eyes shut, but a hum from his girlfriend makes him open them again, look at every move, tangled legs, drifting hands, lazy mouths.

He can’t do anything but suppress the urge to set fire to everything,  _erase everything_. One slip and one chance encounter have led them to this.

Rachel’s watery breath as she comes tells him more than words ever could.

When they cross the threshold to their apartment, they both know it’s over.

..

Her back hurts something fierce, but this is the last box. It’s ironic that Mike has the lion’s share of this place yet he’s the one moving out. She’s left with very little, her coffemaker, her clothes and her Barbra shrine in the corner—which, considering the circumstances, seems completely insane.

She’s losing her love of four years, but she’s keeping silverware and a Barbra Streisand _altar_. She really threw all she had into this, but now it’s bare furniture and carpet; a cat and a hundred boxes.

She doesn’t know why she’s packing. Is that guilt? Even in payback she feels like she owes him something. Even though it’s not exactly—

“The van’s held up on 44th, there’s a UPS truck unloading, but they should be here soon,” he says as quietly as he walked back in. From her spot on the floor, she just nods and continues to pick at the cardboard. She doesn’t have the nerve to look up, she doesn’t have to. He made a mistake, she made a mistake.

“I want you to be honest with me, Rach.”

She hums quietly—she knows what he’s about to ask.

“Was that the first time?”

His voice fails a bit at the end and she only whispers, “No.”

It’s not in Mike to just cause a scene or be dramatic—she’s not even sure she would at this point; he just leans down, piles three boxes and kisses the top of her head long enough for her to close her eyes and sigh. No crying, no goodbyes, they said. 

It is what it is.

..

_“You used me.”_

Santana’s text makes her pause mid-chew of her lo mein, the alert hovering over the picture of her wearing Mike’s Joffrey t-shirt she has yet to remove from her phone. She can’t deny it.

She doesn’t know what to say, either.

Before she can set her chopsticks down, her phone buzzes with the follow up. _“I’m sorry I let you. We both fucked up.”_ If she knows Santana at all, it’s almost like she’s… _“I’m sorry_ , _Rachel_.”

There might be hope in this pitiful situation, after all.


	7. Rachel/Santana - first time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [kissing-a-stranger](http://kissing-a-stranger.tumblr.com) asked: fear, change, open, tender. Rachel has landed an incredible new role and she propositions Santana “Teach me how to make love to a woman”, things change forever.

“Open?”

As Rachel, laid back on the pillows, slowly parts her legs, Santana holds the bare expanse of thighs between the hem of Rachel’s sweater and her dark grey thigh highs. For a moment, her eyes grow wide and say so much about how scared she is and how literally she’s taking everything.

“No, no,” she says, her tone soothing (living with this girl has done wonders for her manners). She closes Rachel’s legs and hovers over her body, their noses an inch apart; “What I meant was… Are you sure? Are you really  _open_  to this?”

She hopes their proximity can show how dead serious she is. Eye to eye, she’s putting herself on the line for this girl she’s learned to love in secret. She needs help and Santana’s willing to give it.

Rachel closes the gap between them and kisses her softly. “I’m positive,” she murmurs against her lips. “ _Open_.”

Santana was supposed to submit to her, teach her how to handle sex with a woman. Instead, Rachel’s making this personal. Santana leans her forehead against hers, moves a strand of hair that lingered between them and sighs. “We have to switch for this to work.”

“No, we don’t.”

“Your scenes do not request a power bottom, you’re taking the lead.”

That last word almost doesn’t make it out of her lips when she feels nails softly run up her sides, under her shirt and back to her hips.

Rachel turns her head just so and whispers in her ear, “I want you to make love to me.”

Santana clenches her thighs from the words alone and rasps out, “But **—** your part **—** ”

“I’m an actress, I’m sure I can hold my own.”

Now it’s Santana who can feel the fear coil in her gut. “What do you mean?”

“It took me a long time… to accept that I changed.  _We_  changed,” and now Rachel’s gently pressing their bodies together in the most intimate of ways. She’s sure this dusk glow faintly coming from the window makes them look hot as fuck. And then she smirks at the thought; it’s  _them_ , of course it does. “And I want  _you_. As for the part, if you promise to never leave me, I think I’m okay.”

She can’t let Rachel see her cry **—** which the light may not be helping with at all. “I think I’m okay with that.” More than okay. More than content. Relieved and happy and absolutely in love.

“I could never do this with no strings.” She tenderly nuzzles Santana’s collarbone and starts feeling for the hem of her shirt. “I’m either in this or not at all.”

“Good,” she breathes. “I’ve been all in since I moved here. And if you tell anyone, I’ll deny it.”

Rachel giggles. “Sure.” She hums slowly as they move, still fully clothed. “Can I ask you one thing?”

“Yeah.”

“Please, be gentle.”

Santana collapses in a giggle fit into Rachel’s neck. “Is that what you told  _Finn_?”

If the circumstances were different, Rachel would’ve huffed more indignantly than she does now.

“ _Maybe_. And he was very… cooperative.”

“That’s one way to say it.”

“Please stop talking about other things, this is just us.”

It’s them. Yes, it’s  _them_. And she knows her audience. “We could also roleplay with your script.”

That tremble underneath her proves it.

“ _Later_.”

“Okay, later.”


	8. Rachel/Santana - anniversary

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was in an anniversary mood and wrote this little thing set on [this ‘verse](http://waywardcherry.tumblr.com/post/43662238646). Whee.

Santana almost stumbles into the apartment—like, literally, she dodged the gym bag she dropped by the coat rack earlier by half an inch—hopping on one foot, already removing her boots, only to find Rachel in yoga pants and a fucking  _sweater_ , braiding her own hair and watching TV like it’s the live report of the Royal baby’s birth.

Honestly, she expected a tight red dress and eyeliner to infinity scolding her for being late for their anniversary date.

Instead, she gets  _this_.

"Aren’t you supposed to be looking hot and berating the shit out of—"

She gets  _shushed_. Seriously. Not even a glance her way.

It doesn’t stop her from trying to be ready on time; at least  _once_  in the five years they’ve been together she’s gonna be the one doing the rushing and feel fucking boss at it. She keeps on unzipping her other boot and removing her jacket at the same time and— _honestly_ , Rachel? “Real Housewives of New York Reunion  _part two_?”

"Shh!"

"Reunion part  _two_.”

"They have a lot of talking to do."

"Apparently."

Having a second part to a reunion doesn’t make a lick of sense to her. It’s not even a reunion anymore. And that show was already moronic when it was just the show itself, now it’s a parade of bitches and their closeted husbands sniping at each other one more fucking time. (She watched the first reunion, so fucking what?)

Rachel keeps doing and undoing her braid, like she’s having an OCD sleepover with herself. “Johanna didn’t even _invite_  you, you viper!” She yells at the TV and it’s not any less scary than it was the first time around. These things are like crack to her girlfriend.

"Uh, babe, what’s the point of a part two?"

"Santana, it’s important that they go over their unresolved issues."

Santana blinks. “I’m sorry, what’s the interesting part?”

Rachel deflates a little. “They want a third season.”

"Ah," it does make sense. What  _still_  doesn’t is why for the first time in like, ever, she’s the one more worried about this anniversary than the ones before.

Well. It’s not  _entirely_  out of her grasp. There  _may_  be a ring in her bag. No one can prove anything. (Shut up. It’s not like she’s gonna propose at the restaurant or risk Rachel crack a tooth hiding the thing in her dessert. She has a plan.) The point is that this is the first time she actually bought into Rachel’s whole thing of celebrating this into midnight for the sole purpose of spending her their anniversary in bed, the first time she’s actually  _remembered_ it (for a reason), and she’s getting no cooperation here.

"Rachel? And  _don’t_  shush me,” she raises her hand before Rachel can actually do it, “we need to get ready to do the thing?”

"I will," she replies almost like she’s not there, eyes still glued to the TV. Goddamnit.

“ _Berry_!”

Rachel meerkats, wide eyed—the power her last name has on her will never not be hilarious, but it’s slightly less funny when Santana’s this frustrated. “I did not just run up six flights of stairs just to bust your ass off the couch because of the real housewives of _wherethefuckever_. We have important shit to do tonight!”

 _God_ , does it feel good to be at the other end of the whip.

Rachel fiddles nervously with the ends of her braid. “We do, but—” she gives Santana a once-over, “we don’t have to dress up… or  _down_ , that much.” Santana looks down at herself, standing there in skinny jeans and a purple bra and yeah, it would be safe to say she’s confused.

"We have reservations at Per Se and you’re not even wearing  _shoes_ —and might I add? I  _see_ those ladybug socks which were _mine_  and I told you not to go through my pile for goodwill,” and damn it, she wants to be angry, but that guilty bite of the lip and the Bambi eyes are doing her in so bad…

"Baby, I’m so sorry you had to go through that, I—didn’t know we were going out."

It’s like something in her brain fizzles, really. Every damn year it’s her idea to go “somewhere special” and now, when the planning’s up to Santana, she has the  _gall_  to screw everything up. She doesn’t even know where to begin and needs to sit down immediately.

“ _Fine_ ,” she says curtly and flops down next to Rachel on the couch. “What’s Estella up to with Franco’s business anyway? And don’t look at me like that, I’m gonna need a beer for this shit.”

When she thinks Rachel’s getting up to cater to her needs (she could really get used to the guilt trip, it’s starting to amuse her), she’s actually swiveling around on the couch and over Santana’s lap, straddling her, grabbing her face and kissing her before she can protest. And then laughing into her mouth. Okay,  _that_ —

"I’m  _so_  sorry, Santana,” and she sets off again, silencing her with quick pecks. “Look, if you want to go out, we can go out, it’s not a problem.”

That’s fucking rich. “‘Not a—”

"I just need to do something first and I thought we had proper anniversary things later, I didn’t realize it was so early, I’m sorry," and it’s hard to fight when her girl’s voice drops like that and she’s this confused. "I just needed to do something first, it won’t take long."

"If you say it’s watching the damn reunion, I  _swear_ —”

"No," she laughs and stands, pulling Santana with her. "It’s in the DVR, it’s fine. Come here."

That’s how she ends up in the bedroom being proposed to in her half-naked glory, and back at her usual place in this relationship, getting a champagne bath as punishment for trying to upstage Rachel at her own proposal.

She has to admit it’s not an awful place to be, not when she gets to pin her  _fiancée_  to the mattress and reduce her to a mess of sighs and giggles as an apology.

It’s not a bad place to be  _at all_.


	9. Rachel/Santana - drunken proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: Ambrosia’s Biggest Part of Me + “ A drunken proposal?” + Pezberry (+ at a wedding reception if that works for you)

“Spin again!”

Rachel moves the glasses away from Santana’s reach—it’s hazardous at this point. “No, too much, I can’t kiss Artie again.”

Their seemingly nauseated friend nods. (It’s relieving she’s not alone in this.) “I’ve become more acquainted with Berry than I cared to be, if we’re being honest.”

It doesn’t sting because nothing does at this point of intoxication. She shrugs and turns to a pouty Santana, “I’d rather kiss you, like, all the time.”

Santana’s eyes become shiny and that’s just what she was going for. “Baby, that’s so sweet!”

Kitty’s eyes just about roll out of their sockets. “Lord save me, how in the name of hell did I end up at this loser table?”

Artie huffs. “Babe, you know you got love for losers.”

“I got love for _you_ , loser, not the ones I’m forced to associate with because of this,” she says, motioning to the dress they all share with three of Mercedes’s friends and Mike’s older sister. The bridal party is absolutely insane and she made Santana document every event they put together for posterity—or just in case Inside the Actors Studio needed candid footage from her early years.

Santana throws a flower from the arrangement straight into Rachel’s cleavage and raises her hands in victory, roaring with laughter, “Yes!”

“Nice aim, yo!”

“ _God_.”

Just when she’s about to scold them all, the band starts playing _So Emotional_ , making hers and Santana’s heads snap up so fast she can honestly see grids of rainbows around things.

The first verse doesn’t even register before she’s pulled out of her seat by a blur of yellow she’s hoping to all deities is her girlfriend. Okay, so they’re going to the dancefloor! That’s cool! Except it’s now behind them and they’re alone in an area of the lawn.

“You gotta do that ridiculously cute body roll, now!”

Ohhhh. They’re doing that senior year number! That was fun. Except she tries a move and ends up on her back on the grass.  
(She’s never drinking sitting down again.)

Santana topples over her body and can’t stop laughing. “That was fucking awesome, Berry.”

“No, don’t call me that.”

“Willow?”

“I do have a name, you know.”

“My baby, my diva, babes…”

“Go on…”

“What if you called me Berry, too? Then we’d be even!” She says that like it’s the idea of the century.

“You’re Lopez.”

“Damn right. But I could be Berry.”

Okay, so her voice has dropped in tone and the way she whispers _“Ain’t it shocking what love can do?”_ does different things all over her body.

“You could marry me?” Rachel says carefully, not sure if it’s a question or a suggestion. _So_ dumb.

“Ask nicely.”

Holy god, _this is happening_. She tries a little more confidence this time. “Santana, will you be my Berry?”

There’s a grin against her neck and a giggly yes. Her chest fills with something she can’t describe.

This is _definitely_ going on her memoir.


	10. Brittany/Rachel - comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> missmandamargo asked: Pieberry, Kelly Clarkson "Fearless"

  
Brittany’s hand is soft, so soft, guiding her own like this. “Like that?” Rachel asks, her voice barely a hush.

“Like that,” Brittany says, almost without a sound. There’s incense burning on the kitchen table; along with a few candles, light scarcely seeps through the curtains. Her fingertips are now brushing the side of Brittany’s breast, and it makes her want to sit up as well and—do something else.

They’re alone. They’ve been getting random strays in the loft for the past two weeks now, and Brittany and Quinn were the latest to show up. She knows they’re not making casual visits—they’re checking in on her. And she knows Kurt and Blaine are behind this. (Not that Santana wouldn’t be, she’s just not the type to mastermind this kind of operation, especially when random people crash on her bed and eat her salted nuts.) Rachel gets it. It does make a person feel special and cared for. But Brittany was just about dragged here and Quinn has to deal with a snippy Santana.

And Santana would _have her head_ for this.

It’s always the same thing. The pitiful looks, the whatever-you-needs, the uncomfortable silences. Nobody knows how to act normally around her since Finn—

She’s sick of it. She wants to feel good again. “I just want to feel, it’s not too much to ask for,” was more akin to what she said to start this. Then there was Brittany turning off the TV, sitting up on the bed and telling her to “close your eyes and trust me.”

Famous last words, she thought, until she felt. With everything she had. This had never happened before. And she wanted to feel again, and she has Brittany to guide her.

Her fingertips dance on pale skin, featherlike touches, eliciting sighs and low hums, just like hers minutes before. The curves of a woman’s body hold something incredible if you know just where to go. Brittany’s hand covers hers again and closes around it, curving her fingers until her nails are scraping her stomach; not forcefully, just—enough.

Both their breaths hitch at how her muscles tighten and her skin gets goosebumps. It’s _exhilarating_ and she needs more.

“Brittany… Would it be okay if—”

“Yes,” she rasps, eyes still closed, already pulling their bodies together.

It’s a frantic yet delicate relief to be able to get this close to another person again, to feel and demand and release just because it’s good; it’s cleansing.

Santana and Sam and Finn and girls flash through her mind, but this—this is between them. It’s a mutual permission to surrender.

She’s awake again.


	11. Quinn/Brittany - college AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon asked: Ke$ha "Past Lives" Quitt college AU meeting for the first time

Under the stars is where she settles, a dome with flashing lights and warm grass underneath her body. The thumping goes with the beat of her heart, sometimes steady, sometimes just slashing through her with feeling, any feeling. She just feels the beat.

Giggles bubble up her throat and she can feel her entire paint-splattered body; these clothes are wonderfully ruined by all the colors the drums painted her with. She lifts up her arms and the colors are breathtaking against her skin, the calligraphy L barely visible under the blue of her wrist.

Lucy would enjoy this. Lucy would _feel_ this.

Lucy’s here, finally.

A lean body lays alongside hers, reaches delicately for her hand and says, “Lucy?”

She feels so amazing it’s only slightly jarring that this girl would hit jackpot. “I am Lucy Quinn.”

“I am Brittany Susan.”

Her voice is so full of life she can’t help but laugh at that introduction. Maybe it’s the booze, maybe it’s the pill, but one look at Brittany assures her she won’t be sorry she ever met her. Her light eyes, either blue or grey, are looking up at the dome, following a constellation spin slowly around them.

“Do you know what that is?”

“No,” Quinn says, staring intently at the awe in that girl’s face.

“That’s Aquila.”

“Are you into astronomy?”

“No,” she rasps. “My friend is. I was solving an equation my way and he drew it on my paper with my numbers.”

“Like connect the dots?”

Brittany laughs, “Yeah, like that. So I always remember it when I see it.” She pauses for a moment and fixes her gaze on Quinn. “Like I always remember you when I see you.”

A few minutes of clarity and conversation clue her into the fact that Brittany’s the one with the whimsical hats, the one she sees every morning from her off-campus apartment crossing the streets, heading to MIT. “And you’re always in the Political Science corner of that tiny bookstore just outside of Harvard. They have awesome sweaters.”

Quinn breaks into giggles. The prestigious students who have watched each other from afar meet under the influence (and the stars) at a rave. Slender fingers intertwine with hers. “How did you know my name?”

“You look like a Lucy. _In the sky…_ ” Brittany grins and Quinn laughs once more.

She _feels_ like Lucy.


End file.
